


Once Upon a December

by Solemini (SoleminiSanction)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Amnesia, Family, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, secret surprise guest stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-13 09:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15361731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoleminiSanction/pseuds/Solemini
Summary: Little Timmy Drake is long dead. All of Gotham knows, but his godfather, Bruce Wayne, still offers a massive reward for his safe return. So when a homeless teen who's a ringer for the dead kid lands in Jason's lap, who could blame him for taking a chance at the world's greatest scam and all the riches that come with it?Tim doesn't care about the reward. He just wishes he remembered his family.(Anastasia!AU)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Did someone ask for an Anastasia!AU? No? Well surprise! You're getting one anyway. ^_^

The line for entry to Wayne Manor stretched a good three or four cars past the tannenbaum-draped gates, but that was only to be expected. It was, after all, the night of the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundation’s annual Holiday Gala, one of if not the biggest event of the Gotham City social calendar. Everyone who was anyone would be there, especially anyone who wanted to be anyone in Gotham. 

“Now see,” said Jack Drake from behind the wheel of his Rolls-Royce. “If we’d bought the lot next door like I wanted, we could have just walked.”

Janet, his wife and the co-CEO of their company, smacked his shoulder. She crossed her arms and grumbled about walking anywhere with snow in Louis Vuitton heels. It was an old argument continued in jest, so their six-year-old son Tim felt no guilt in giggling from the back seat.

Slowly but surely, they made their way up the long, winding drive to the wide-open front doors of the Manor, with its tasteful decorative lights and plush carpets laid out for the event. There, with some reluctance, Jack passed his car to a valet and scooped his son into his arms. Six was a bit old to be carried, but Tim was also small for his age and could be easily lost in a crowd, so Jack balanced him on one hip while Janet wrapped herself around his other arm.

Tim held tight, barely able to contain his excitement as they passed, together, from the cold, dark night into the welcoming golden warmth of the party.

The front hall and grand ballroom were packed full of a thousand chattering guests and at least as many members of the press. Everyone wore their finest and most festive, filling the room with shimmering reds, greens, and blues with accents of silver and gold. Rich scents, a mix of savory and sweet, wafted from the dining room. Soft music echoed from the ballroom down the opposite hall.

In the middle of it all was Bruce Wayne.

He stood on the wide middle landing of the central stair, dressed in a crisp black suit tailored to a perfect fit on his handsome figure. Everyone wanted a piece of him – he was the host, after all – but only two were allowed to linger more than a moment. One was his butler, Alfred, who expertly fielded the guests who approached his employer; the other, a teenage boy made of long limbs and restless energy.

Dick Grayson.

Tim strained in his father’s holding, stretching his neck as far as it could go in his attempt to peer over the crowd. He felt his father groan and open his mouth, perhaps to scold him for over-balancing. Before that could happen, his eyes locked with Dick’s.

The older boy lit up. “Timmy!”

Before anyone could stop him, he darted between the guests and leapt onto the staircase banister, balancing as easy as a surfer. He slid all the way down, accompanied by a gasping chorus, which turned to laughs when he hit the end and flipped off into a perfect three-point landing.

Tim squirmed. Jack barely had time to set him down before Dick descended. He wrapped the smaller boy into a tight hug and nuzzled his hair.

Cameras flashed and guests cooed. Behind them, a chuckling Bruce descended – properly this time – to greet Jack with a handshake and Janet with a kiss on the cheek. Whispers rustled around them as a hundred seasoned reporters filled their newer colleagues in on the story: how Janet and Bruce had been friends in college, how she’d named him Tim’s godfather half as a joke, and how Dick’s adoption two years before had brought the two families closer than ever.

Tim didn’t care. His heart was too full. He just buried his face in his godbrother’s shoulder and hugged back as hard as he could, happy to feel once again like he was being welcomed home.

 

* * *

 

 

Tim was a good boy, and he’d been taught form a young age how to handle strangers and parties and late nights. But he was also only six years old. Eventually, the noise and the crowd and the scents and the _people_ got to be too much.

That’s why Dick was the best godbrother _ever_. Four hours in, after dinner was done and the dancing started in earnest, he’d noticed Tim was crumpling like a wilting flower and took his chance. He plucked the smaller boy right off his feet and declared to their guardians that he was taking Tim to his room. The adults, too amused or distracted or thankful to object, let them go.

There were no guests allowed in the private quarters on the upper-east wing, and thanks to that it was blissfully quiet. Dick slowed from a jog to a stroll when they got there, padding along the thick carpet as he adjusted the – admittedly heavy – lump in his arms.

“Feel better?” he asked softly.

Tim nodded, but hid his eyes in Dick’s shoulder. Even as little as he was, Dick guessed he was embarrassed at having to leave the party early, “like a baby.” Which meant it was good that Dick had an ulterior motive.

“I’m glad I finally got you alone,” he said brightly, giving Tim a comforting squeeze. “I wanna show you something.”

A single eye peaked out. “Something?”

“A surprise.”

Tim lifted his head to look Dick full in the face. His eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Dick grinned back, setting the smaller boy on his feet – and just in time, since his arms were getting tired. He took Tim’s hand and led him to his bedroom at the very end of the hall. It wasn’t anything special, but it was painted his favorite shade of blue.

Dick helped Tim onto the bed, then went around to the foot, where they’d recently added a tattered steamer trunk with the name _Grayson_ embossed on the front. It and its contents had spent a long time as police evidence after his parents’ death, but he’d finally gotten it back now. Just in time for Christmas.

He dug through the treasures – mostly old costumes that still smelled of his parents – until he found what he was looking for. He closed the trunk, bounded onto the bed, and knee-walked to Tim, who watched with curiosity.

“Ta da!” he declared, revealing his prize. It was a small, metal box covered in a filigree of silver and bronze. “Try to open it.”

Timmy tried. His fingers traced the edges first, then the sides, and then his tongue started to poke out, the way it always did when he was working on a puzzle. He traced the decorations, poked and prodded at the sides, and tugged on the footer knobs before finally giving up. “I can’t. There’s no lid.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick drew out the words with sing-song delight, tugging at a chain he wore around his neck. “But see, that’s the secret. Look.”

He held up the bronze pendant at the end of the chain. It was about the size and dimensions of a penny, shaped like a snowflake or maybe a gear, and one side had a wheel-shaped symbol engraved on its surface.

Taking Tim’s hand, Dick helped him feel the little notch hidden on the underside of the box, where the pendant fit perfectly. He slipped it in, wound it up three times, and let go.

Gears clicked and music began to play, a soft, haunting tune that Dick knew by heart. He knew that Tim recognized it too, from the way his eyes widened. They always played it at the circus, at the start of the Flying Grayson’s act.

The box clicked again as its secret lid opened, revealing a tiny bronze elephant that rose from within and spun, balanced on its hind legs. Tim gasped, watching in wonder until the music played itself out and the elephant returned to its hole.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed into the silence that followed.

“Isn’t it?” Dick shifted, settling in at Tim’s side and balancing the box between them. “Mister Giuseppe – the engineer at the show – made it for my mom when she was pregnant.”

It still hurt to think of her, even after two years. His dad too. But things were better now, so much better than they’d been right after, when he was alone. Tim was part of why. Like Bruce. Like Batman.

Dick snuggled closer and held the pendant where Tim could more clearly see the engraving. “He made three keys. They’re the only ones in the world. This one was my mom’s. Bruce and Alfred have my dad’s. And…” Deep breath. “I’ve decided. I want you to have mine, Tim.”

Tim gasped, sitting straight up like Dick was a radiator he’d leaned into on accident. “Dick, I can’t—”

“Sure you can,” said Dick, cutting him off. “I _want_ you to. This wheel? It means family, and you’re my family now. You’re my little brother.” He mussed Tim’s mop of black hair. “This way, no matter what, even when you’re old enough to go on trips with your folks, we’ll always have a little piece of each other. A little secret, just for us. So it’s like we’re never really that far away. Okay?”

Tim’s cheeks went so red he looked about to cry, or maybe explode. But he still nodded, face split into a shy smile.

“Okay.”

Dick whooped and wrapped him in another hug before pulling an identical pendant from the pocket of his suit. He slipped it around Tim’s neck, tucking it beneath his shirt and clip-on tie, where the extra cloth would keep it secure.

Tim traced its shape though the cloth like it was something holy. He wouldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, as all things do, the party came to an end. The Drakes were among the last guests to leave, reclaiming their sleeping son from his godbrother as Jack ruffled Dick’s hair and Janet kissed his cheek. Tim woke enough as they moved to hug Bruce, then Alfred goodnight, and he stayed awake while they loaded up the car and drove away. He waved out the back window until the curving driveway carried his godfather out of sight.

The Rolls-Royce pulled away from Wayne Manor, turned towards the city across the river, and disappeared into the black December night.

Its passengers were never seen alive again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is tagged "Jason & Tim" as opposed to "JayTim" because, even though Jason's in the Dimitri role, I'm not sure yet how kiss-y they're going to get. Currently the outline is firmly in the "pre-slash" category, but I'll be sure to update the tags as things change. 
> 
> For full effect, picture the Gotham of this AU matching the semi-anachronistic one from the first few episodes of the Animated Series, the one where everybody drove Art Deco cars and owned a black and white TV. That's about what I imagine.

Ten years later

 

“Welcome back to The News at Eight, I’m Vicki Vale. 

“This Christmas season marks the tenth anniversary of two Gotham industrialists’ mysterious deaths and the unsolved disappearance of their young son. Timothy Jackson Drake was last seen leaving a high society gala with his parents on Christmas Eve when he was six years old. The family was reported missing by their housekeeper two days later, and the following spring saw their car recovered from the Queens River, with the bodies of Jack and Janet Drake inside. The cause of the couples’ death remains unsolved.

“The body of Timothy Drake was never recovered, leaving many to speculate that he may have somehow survived, though no evidence to that end has arisen in the decade since. Today in a press conference, the boy’s godfather Bruce Wayne – billionaire CEO of Wayne Enterprises – raised his standing reward for information regarding Drake’s disappearance to fifty thousand dollars, and the reward for his safe return to ten _million_. When questioned, Mister Wayne had this to say:”

The gray image flickered, switching from the reporter and her news graphics to a no-longer-young man, his dark hair flecked with early gray.

“Janet Drake was a dear friend and one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever known,” he recited, standing at a podium as flashbulbs burs around him. “We may never know what happened to her that fateful night, but I may yet fulfill my promise to protect her son. So please, if you know anything, even all these years later, I implore you to come forward. Please, help bring my godson home.”

 

 

Jason snorted, his breath fogging the hardware store’s glass. He squeezed through the knot of working girls and down-on-their-lucks who’d clustered at the mention of cash, emerging onto the open sidewalk, and kept walking.

The Drake kid was long dead. As dead as the Lindbergh baby.  Everyone in Gotham knew it. His little body had washed out to sea with Gotham’s trash, like a hundred unfortunate stoolpigeons. No amount of happy thoughts or fairy dust could change that. But sad rich people made for great ratings, and ol’ Wayne seemed deep in denial, even ten years on.

Still, as the foul ice of a Bowery winter crunched under his feet, Jason let himself consider the possibility – not of the kid, but of that _reward_. Ten million was pennies to a rich bastard like Wayne, but it was more cash than Jason, his parents, his grandparents and his great-grandparents had even known, combined. With cash like that, Jason could clear out of Gotham, move someplace safe, go to _college_ …

His foot slipped. He caught himself on brick wall of some ratty apartment and cursed. Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Sure, he had the germ of a plan – one he’d been working on all week – but it wouldn’t mean shit if he couldn’t find the right player.

He sat himself down on the apartment’s stoop, angling to catch the light from its dying orange bulb. He lit a cigarette for warmth and thumbed through his notes, a tattered steno pad full of chicken scratch in his own personal code. There newspaper clippings, photocopies or polaroids stuck between every other page.

His latest list was of locations, most already scratched out. So far this week, he’d cased every homeless shelter in the Bowery and half the charity soup kitchens, where there’d been a few potentials but none who were a close enough match.

He sighed, exhaling a thin stream of white smoke straight up as he tugged a certain clipping from the back cover. It had yellowed with age, but its headline remained clear as the day his mom, in one of her more lucid fits, had clipped it from the paper:

 **SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING BOY**

Beneath that was a photo of little Timmy Drake from his last party, half his face shyly turned into the shoulder of an older boy. It wasn’t the sort of shot you saw on milk cartons or Missing flyers, but Jay could see why they’d picked it for the paper. It showed enough of the kid to ID him – with those big, pale eyes and the face of a little doll – while also making him look small and vulnerable. It played right into the protective instinct of every vaguely parental adult in Gotham.

In other words, it was blatant emotional manipulation. But that was what they – the searchers, and Jason too, if he was being honest – needed. Of course, if Timmy Drake had lived he’d be sixteen by now and nowhere near as cute, but if Jason was going to train some kid to act the part long enough to claim the reward he needed to deliver what Bruce Wayne expected, not the flawed reality.

So, nothing less than perfect would do. Which meant he had to keep searching.

He polished off his smoke and stood, grinding out the stub with his boot. He stepped onto the sidewalk, turned towards him, and was almost immediately run down by some asshole going the other direction.

“Hey, watch it!” he snapped, shoving back as good as he got.

The figure recoiled. It was a teenager, short, in a hooded sweatshirt, pulled high and tight to cover his head. He hunched his shoulders – against the wind, or on instinct to become less of a threat – and muttered, “Sorry.”

Jason huffed even as his aggression died. Call him a softie, but he just couldn’t last out at kids smaller than him, especially the ones who’d clearly been in a rough patch. He saved the bluster for bullies, not their targets.

The kid took his dismissal to heart and scurried off, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Jason turned away, and only then did it register that the kid was picking up speed. He’d already hit the next corner, where he banked into an ally and broke into a flat-out sprint.

Stomach sinking, Jason checked his pockets. He patted down both jeans and coat, finding his keys and his notebook…

…but no wallet.

“Mother _fuck_.”

He ran, heedless of the ice or the grifter who chuckled from across the street. He hit the alley – a tight squeeze barely wider than his shoulders – and found it empty, not even a hint of movement in the long, silent shadow.

Metal clattered overhead. Jason looked up to find the kid scrambling up fire escapes, already six stories up a ten-story building. Jason cursed again, squeezed into the alley, and leapt for the lowers platform. No time to fight the ladders; he hauled himself up by the arms until his feet found grating, then flung himself to the next landing. The rusted metal shrieked beneath his weight with every lunge.

The kid, now hitting the roof, turned back and gave a squeak of fear. He bolted.

Jason growled, putting his height and strength to good use in closing the gap. He hauled himself onto the roof just in time to watch the kid launch off the opposite edge.

His heart skipped a beat, but the kid only fell a few feet before hitting the roof of a smaller building next door. But he didn’t stick the landing; instead, he crashed to one side and rolled hard. Jason heard him gasp with pain. Winded. He wouldn’t get the chance to recover.

With a vengeful roar, Jason flung himself from roof to roof and into a fully rugby tackle, bringing the kid down with two hundred pounds of solid muscle and rage. They rolled across tarpaper-covered cement, a knot of angry limbs and flailing fingers. The kid, to his credit, gave almost as good as he got, kicking and scratching and _biting_ Jason like a cat. But Jason was bigger, and he’d run down meaner punks in his day. He slammed the kid onto his back and pinned him, using every ounce of his weight to hold the little bastard still.

“You fucking little _shit_ ,” he spat, tightening his grip until bones creaked under his hands. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t ring your scrawny…”

And then he finally got a good look. And time seemed to slow down.

The kid’s hood had fallen back, revealing a mop of soft, sable-black hair that desperately needed a trim. His skin was milk-pale, so that every scratch and bruise shown in angry bursts, and his features were almost delicate for a boy – the word “doll-like” popped unbidden into Jason’s mind. And he had objectively beautiful eyes, big and clear and blue, the kind that could talk their way into or out of pretty much anything.

In short, the kid was a dead ringer for the little boy in the photo from Jason’s notes. He looked, for all the world, exactly like little Timmy Drake.

Jason gaped like an idiot, hardly daring to believe his luck. Before he could get his head straight, time returned with a vengeance. The kid began to struggle, writhing and bucking, desperation clear in those blue eyes.

Jason panicked, because as long as the kid could fight he could eventually get away. And Jason couldn’t let him get away, not when he’d finally found the player for his plan. So, he did the first thing he could think of, and head-butted the kid dead between the eyes.

The kid’s head snapped back, bounced off the tarpaper, and flopped still. His eyes rolled back and his limbs went limp. Out cold.

Jason kept him pinned a moment longer, just to be sure. Then he sat back on his heels, ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and sighed.

“Well shit,” he muttered to no one. This was not how he’d expected this to go.


	3. Chapter 3

_Black._

_It was black, and heavy, and cold, and there was something pulling him down and oh_ god _he couldn’t_ breathe _…_

 

Tim burst awake, choking on a gasp. He coughed, rolled to his side and propped himself up on one arm to gulp down stale air.

It took a few shallow gasps to calm that instinctual panic, and a few more to realize that, while he was in _a_ shitty apartment, it was not _his_ shitty apartment. His apartment had a bed, for one, and a window, and while it wasn’t huge it had enough space that he couldn’t touch opposite walls at the same time. It occurred to him that he might actually be in a closet; it would explain the closed door that was much too close and the single bare bulb over his head. He was lying on a thin, bare mattress laid directly on a hard, bare floor, its only creature comforts a flat pillow and a scratchy blanket stolen straight from a cheap motel.

His heart raced with fresh fear. Where was he? How did he get here? _How much did he still remember?_

Without thinking, the hand that wasn’t supporting him snapped to his chest, searching until desperate fingers closed around the small bronze pendant that hung from his neck. He sat up, tracing its familiar shape, and finally relaxed enough to take stock of his thoughts.

He remembered…Thank god, he remembered _…_ his boss, a sweet Indian lady who barely spoke any English, crying as she hung an “Out of Business” sign in the broken remains of her secondhand electronic shop’s window. He remembered her apologizing, again and again, that she wouldn’t be able to pay him for the last three weeks, her sincerity a poor comfort when he’d found the eviction notice on his apartment door. He remembered a night in an over-crowded shelter and another two on the streets outside, watching the temperature drop along with his chances of surviving 'til spring.

He remembered desperation, being willing to try anything, even a line he’d never thought he’d cross, and then…

Ah. Right. That’s how he got here.

As the last piece fell into place, the door opened. He was, in fact, in a closet, and now his only way out was blocked by the brick shithouse of a man he’d stupidly decided to pickpocket.

Tim hadn’t looked too close before, but now that he did he had to admit: the man was good-looking, in a rough-hewn, bred-for-the-streets, carved-from-raw-wood-with-a-chainsaw kind of way. He had a strong jaw and dark hair, cut neat but otherwise left to its own devices. Even without all the leather he’d worn on the streets, he looked like he could break Tim in half, which made the mercurial intellect behind his eyes all the more intimidating.

He stared down at Tim and his lips split into a smirk. “Good. You’re up.”

He sat down, not bothering to move from the door, and dropped something into Tim’s lap. It was Chines take-out, still warm, with chopsticks to match.

“Eat,” said the shithouse, digging into his own container.

Tim stared at him even as his stomach growled. “Excuse me?”

“You need some meat on those bones. That hit should not have had you out that long.”

Tim eyed the container, considering all the drugs it could be laced with – he’d seen dealers do worse to catch their addicts young – but it smelled so _good_ and his stomach ached to be filled. He tore open the paper box and shoveled noodles into his mouth without tasting them. The older man watched in amusement.

“‘Ow wong?”

“Manners, kid. Swallow, then speak.”

Tim gulped. The too-big bite hurt so good going down. “How long is ‘that long’?”

“Three hours, give or take. You’re lucky my place was close.”

Tim peered over the man’s shoulder, taking in the studio apartment beyond. It had a window – two, actually. So, a corner room. With kitchenette, bathroom, fold-out couch. It all looked Bowery-cheap, so at least he was telling the truth about that.

“You got a name?”

Tim scowled. “Do _you_?”

“Jason Todd.”

He said it so simply, like it was easy. Which, to most people, it probably was.

Tim bit his lip. The shithead – Jason – raised an expectant eyebrow. 

“…Tim.”

The eyebrow quirked higher. “ _Really_.”

Tim didn’t like the look he was catching. He didn’t like it at all.

“What of it?” he snapped.

“Nothing. Just, good to know.” Jason shrugged too nonchalantly and stirred his food. “So, Tim. What’s your story?”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Are you a priest? ‘Cause I’ve been jumped by those before. I don’t need confession or to be converted or saved or whatever it is you’re doing here.”

Jason snorted. “Don’t be stupid, kid. Right now, you’re lucky I haven’t turned you into the police.” He pulled his wallet from a back pocket and waved it tauntingly. “And don’t think it’s not still a possibility. So it’s in your best interest to be a little friendlier.”

Tim glared at him, clenching his jaw. The smirk faded as Jason seemed to carefully school his face into a blank, distant mask.

“You a runaway?” he asked softly.

Tim held out a second longer. Then his shoulders sagged. “Technically.”

Jason didn’t push, but took his time chewing over the next bite, letting silence hang between them.

“Six months ago, I was in this big foster home on the south side.”

“The Capaldi place?”

Tim nodded.

“Yeah, that shithole runs on fraud. They’re probably still collecting your checks.” Wood scratched paper as Jason scraped the bottom of his box. “And before that?”

“I got passed around half of Jersey. Kept getting in trouble. Never lasted more than a year.”

“And before all that?”

Tim pursed his lips. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t push that far.

“What happened to your folks?”

“I don’t know.”

“Got any relatives you could hunt down?”

“I don’t know.”

“…you got a last name? A birth certificate? A…”

“I don’t. Know.” Tim set down his food, fingers again tracing the shape of his pendant, the one thing he could call his own. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t remember… _anything_. They found me wandering around, half-frozen, and I don’t even remember that. All I remember is waking up in this charity clinic with a half a name and _nothing else_.”

He curled on himself, knowing that with all he’d just aired he was probably about to be sold as drug mule, or maybe just locked in this closet for the rest of his life as a live-in slave. It didn’t matter. He had nowhere to go anyway, and no one would ever come looking.

“I’m nobody,” he muttered, and stared at the floor.

Silence hung between them, heavy as a dead bird. Jason shifted, and Tim expected him to stand. To leave. Instead, he leaned forward.

“What if I could make you somebody?”

Tim snapped his head up and stared at the older boy, who only gave him a shit-eating grin.

“You ever hear of little Timmy Drake?”

It took a bit of considering, but eventually Tim did conjure up the memory of some Dateline news reports and a press conference he’d only half-watched. He frowned. “Please tell me you didn’t drag me here because you think I’m some rich man’s lost baby.”

“I don’t know who or what you are. Hell, I barely even know you. I’m just saying, you’re around the right age, the right physical type…”

Rough fingers tucked beneath Tim’s chin, tilting it up until met Jason’s gaze.

“And you’ve got his mom’s eyes.”

Tim’s face burned like a live stove. He wrenched back, scooting on the mattress to put some space between them. Jason let him go, but kept right on talking.

“You don’t know what happened to you. _Nobody_ knows what happened to him. Coincidence?” He settled back, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just nailed the perfect argument. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I haven’t,” said Tim, though of course it was a lie. Every lonely kid in the system lay awake some nights, dreaming of the loving family who would never stop searching and couldn’t wait to sweep them away. Who wouldn’t rather believe they were only lost, not unwanted?

Jason tilted his head, every inch of his relaxed posture saying he’d read Tim like a book. He held up one finger, like a teacher about to launch into a lecture.

“Here’s the thing: I just so happen to have a contact with a bit of an _in_ to Wayne Manor. They’ll get us an appointment with the gatekeeper, and if you can just convince him that you _might_ be the little lost Drake, he’ll let us talk to Wayne directly. If anyone would recognize the kid on sight, it’s the loving godfather, right? And if turns out you’re not him, hey.” Jason shrugged. “No harm no foul.”

And Tim…

Tim tried not to think about it. Truly, he did. He’d gotten his hopes up before and been crushed time and again. Stories like this didn’t really happen, they didn’t play out like in movies or fairy tales. The real world wasn’t that kind. And yet…

His fingers traced the familiar wheel-shaped etching on his pendant. He’d spent years looking for its meaning, in library books and online, and eventually he’d found a similar description of an old nomadic European symbol for family. He’d never been sure – a wheel could mean a dozen other things – but he had always, secretly, hoped.

Family. Somewhere out there, at some time, he had a family. Could it be the Waynes?

* * *

Across from him, Jason made a show out of sighing, to drag the kid out of his own thoughts. He gathered their empty containers and hauled himself to his feet.

“Of course, if you’re really not up for it, it’s not like I can force you.” He padded away from the closet and into the kitchenette, leaving the kid – _Tim –_ a straight shot for the apartment door. “And you know, I get it. It’s hard to put yourself out there. All the risk, all the drama…it’d be much easier to just stay a nobody forever.”

He dumped the take-out trash into the garbage can and started running the sink, pretending to wash some old dishes without a care in the world. Internally, he counted the seconds. A good con was all about timing. He’d been laying it on thick, poking and prodding at the kid’s issues until they gave up hooks he could use. And now it was time to bring them all together.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine…

He glanced up, caught Tim’s eye, and nodded to the door.

“You can go if you want. I’m no supervillain, kid. I’m not gonna keep you against your will. Though it is plenty dark, so you be careful out there.”

His eyes fell back to the dishes. He washed and he waited, listening for the tell-tale creak of the floorboards and mattress. The latter came after a moment’s silence, but the kid stepped too light to weigh down the floor. So it almost – _almost_ – took Jason by surprise when that soft, steady voice answered him from the immediate other side of the counter.

 “What did you mean by ‘gatekeeper,’ and how do I convince him?”

Head bowed and face hidden, Jason allowed himself a triumphant smirk.


	4. Chapter 4

“All right, hold still.”

Jason snapped the sheet off his fold-out bed, draped it across Tim’s body, and tied it off at the back of his neck. Normally, Tim would question the wisdom of using one’s only sheet for a haircut when you didn’t know when next you could afford laundry, but this morning he was still too blurry-eyed from sleep to do much more than star dumbly at his own reflection.

Last night, after he’d agreed to their little scheme, Jason had loaded him down with a stack of “research” bound in rubber bands and commanded him to read it all by morning. Too anxious to do otherwise, Tim had spent hours in his closet, pouring over newspaper clippings and photocopies on a life that couldn’t be his. He only put out the weak bulb when dawn crept in and he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Now he sat on a folding chair in the bathroom, running on three hours of sleep and still damp from the shower Jason had tossed him into. The older man stood behind him, just visible in the cracked wall mirror as he parted Tim’s hair and brandished a pair of scissors.

“So,” he said with the light gossipy lit of a hairdresser. “What’s your name?”

Tim stared at the hands’ reflection, trying to gauge if this was a joke or if he’d somehow dreamed up the entire previous night. “…Tim.”

Tutting, Jason yanked a lock of hair at the back of Tim’s head.

“Nah kid, your _full_ name. For the interview. You’ve got a shit-ton to memorize and we only have three days. So let’s try again: _what is your name_?”

Tim grumbled, but let his head tilt forward when Jason pushed it. “Timothy Jackson Drake.”

“Mh-hm. And your parents?”

“Jack and Janet. They used to run Drake Industries.”

“Right.” Gently, Jason carded out a portion of wet hair began snipping at its ends with the scissors. “Birthday?”

“July nineteenth.”

Saying that made Tim’s stomach squirm. He’d never had a birthday before, just the day he entered the system, and even if he’d wanted to celebrate that there was no one to party with. It was only a story, but still. It felt good to claim it for his own.

Jason went on trimming, working his way around Tim’s head as the questions came faster. “What school were you in enrolled in?”

“Brentwood Academy.”

“And where did you first meet Bruce Wayne?”

“He was at my christening–”

Another yank, this one even harder. Tim yelped.

“ _What_? That’s what the clipping said!”

“Society pages get published way in advance, kid. You’ve gotta read the margin notes for the full story. Wayne was supposed to be at your christening, but didn’t show because of ‘urgent business.’ You only met him a week later.” Jason leaned over Tim so the mirror could catch his self-satisfied smirk. “Devil’s in the details. It’s the non-public issue that’ll stick this, trust me.”

Tim craned his neck enough to frown up at the taller man. “Why d’ya even know all this? It’s kinda creepy.”

“ _Kind of_ creepy. Do you. E-nounce-e-ate.” Jason straightened up, nudging Tim’s head back into position. “I do all my own research, and I have excellent sources.”

“More like excellent stalkers.”

“Be good and maybe I’ll let you in on some secrets. Now take it from the top: what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon found them out on the streets, Jason leading the charge through shortcuts that took them around the more dangerous areas of the Bowery.

Tim caught himself pausing at every storefront they passed, watching his own reflection in their windows. It’d been so long since he’d last had a haircut that the new look still took him by surprise. Not that Jason had done a bad job – he actually liked it, falling over his ears and down to the edge of his chin – but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so…tidy.

He paused at one and peered in for a closer look, only to be yanked back by his scruff. Jason had slipped around back of him and now took the opportunity to manhandle his spine into alignment.

“Stand up straight,” he said, sharp as the dance matron in a ballet movie. He pointed Tim down the sidewalk, held his head in both hands, and started marching. “No slouching. Fancy people don’t slouch. Besides, it’s bad for your back.”

Tim groaned, feeling his spine pop as they picked up the pace. “Do we have to do this in public?”

“Nope. But I believe in seizing learning opportunity whenever they come.”

“And how far did that get you?”

“Salutatorian at Finger High for one.”

Tim tried a double-take, only for the hands on his jaw to hold him in place. Finger High was far from the most respected school in Gotham – it was public, after all, and the lowest-ranked of the lot for over a decade – but the classes were huge, and even with the heavy drop-out rate it was no small feat to rise to the top of the class.

Jason’s fingers dragged his skin as the older man shrugged. “What can I say? The Vale’ was a beast. If I’d beat her, she’d have shanked me. Turn in here.”

Tim pushed open the door before he hit it, announcing their arrival with the tinkle of a cheap bell. They’d entered a thrift store, one that smelled of show polish and was filled to the brim with secondhand clothes. Jason released Tim as soon as the door closed and dove into the racks; only his height keeping him from disappearing completely.

They were here to get Tim some clothes besides the ones on his back, yet somehow he couldn’t quite work up much excitement at the prospect of fresh jeans. He trialed after Jason, settled on the other side of a rack, and peered up at the taller man through a set of second-hand sweaters.

“You really got the second-best grades in your entire class?”

“Give or take. Top ten SAT scores too.” Jason glanced to him with the guarded expression of one who’d been doubted too many times. “Surprised?”

“Impressed,” said Tim honestly, though he could understand where people got the wrong idea. Jason was built like a linebacker and carried the attitude of a lowlife hood. Maybe he projected the image to keep people underestimating him. It’s what would do, in his shoes. “Why aren’t you in college?”

Jason shrugged again, though his fingers momentarily clenched in the clothes. “Nobody gives scholarships to a kid with a record.”

He selected a tattered sweater from the rack and held it up to Tim with a thoughtful expression. “I take you ain’t in school anymore.”

Tim considered being offended, but decided that Jason knew enough of his current situation for that to be a fair guess. “Had to drop when I ran away. I’m two credits short of my G.E.D. though.”

“At sixteen?” Now it was Jason’s turn to look impressed. “Not bed.”

“I’d try for legal emancipation, but the court costs…”

“Yeah, that’s always how it goes. Money makes the world go ‘round.” Bitterness dripped into Jason’s tone and his eyes slid out-of-focus, glaring at an injustice only he could see. He shook himself after a moment and left the sweater with Tim, turning to a rack of button-downs. “But hey, if this works out, we’ll both be set for life. You in ‘Stately Wayne Manor,’ surrounded by family, and me…” He gave the next shirt a fond smile that it definitely did not deserve. “I’m thinking sunshine. Somewhere they’ll have sun for days. That’s the ticket.”

Tim let the resulting silence stretch between them until there was only the rattle of clothes hangers on the flimsy racks. He tried to imagine what that life could be, how it would feel to live in that huge house with his own room, with all that money and its promise for a limitless life.

He couldn’t. It was too…out-there. Even the thought of a real family seemed almost too good to be true.

Over the rack, Jason snapped his fingers to get Tim’s attention. “Hey. What’s your favorite color?”

“Red.”

“That’a boy.”

Tim didn’t bother to tell him that the answer wasn’t memorized. It had simply been the truth. 

 

* * *

 

 

They bought Tim a week’s worth of fresh clothes, then spent the night and most of the next day on Jason’s crash-course to Gotham society. They covered the tumultuous history of Drake Industries (dissolved two years ago to be absorbed by Wayne Tech), the proper manners that any high-class preschooler should (apparently) know and, of course, went over every tiny detail of the Drakes’ and Waynes’ homelife until Tim could recite it in his sleep.

Finally, Jason declared him ‘nearly set’ and dragged him out for a cheesesteak dinner at a diner down the way. It was nearly sunset when they finally got back. Tim stashed the leftovers in the fridge and barely had time to unbutton his coat before Jason whistled at him from the window to the fire escape.

“Don’t undress yet, kid. C’mon, follow me.”

Tim must be getting used to the orders, because he couldn’t find the will to complain as he followed Jason out onto the biting cold steel grate. They climbed up to the roof, which was thankfully dry after a week without snow, and Jason paused only long enough to get Tim onto the tarpaper before shooting him a shit-eating grin.

“Keep up,” he said, and took off for the far edge.

Gotham’s vigilantes weren’t the only ones who used rooftops as a route of choice. The city was old and crowded, more European in design than shining Metropolis or sprawling Central City. It meant that the streets were smaller and the buildings closer together. Though Tim wouldn’t dream of leaping a major street or scaling the skyscrapers downtown, he couldn’t dent a slight thrill in chasing Jason along a path he clearly knew by heart.

They ran at a full tilt for eight solid blocks, energy spiking with each vaulted alley, until Jason at last hit the roof of an old warehouse and easily opened a skylight from the outside. He pointed Tim to a nearby fire ladder, then to the ground. “Meet me down there.”

With that as his only instruction, he dropped through the glass.

Tim scrambled down to street level. He hit the sidewalk just in time to hear a heavy padlock unlatch from the other side of a rolling door.

Jason emerged a minute later, steering out the most gorgeous custom motor bike that Tim had ever seen. Its chassis was wine-red and its frame matte black, every piece lovingly selected for peak efficiency and polished to a high sheen.

Tim gaped. “That is a _beautiful_ bike.”

“Ain’t she?” Jason stroked the fuel tank with palpable affection.

“You build it yourself?”

“From the ground up. Took me three years.” Jason gave the bike a final pat before opening a storage case under the seat and retrieving a matching red helmet. “Can’t park in the Bowery though, she’d be stripped in seconds. Get on.”

He tossed Tim the helmet, which Tim caught. “What about you?”

“The helmet? I’ve only got one. And it’s your face we need to keep pretty, princess.”

Tim scowled at the nickname, but didn’t hesitate to put on the helmet. He’d always wanted to try a motorcycle, but could never afford even a normal bike. Excitement bubbled inside him as they climbed on. When they kicked off, it knocked the wind from his lungs even as he held tight to Jason’s belt.

It was better than he’d dreamed, a rush of raw adrenaline that spied the faster they flew. As the dreary red-orange of dusk gave way to the looming neon of a Gotham night, Tim tilted back his head to watch the colors streak past them and laughed.

It took them a half-hour to reach Old Gotham, and Tim enjoyed every second. Even the slow, near-silent rumble up the smooth, townhouse-lined winding roads hit just the right spot, easing him down from the high until they finally pulled into a back alley.

Jason turned off the engine and headlamp, plunging them into shadow. Tim knew he was grinning like a loon when he took off the helmet, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He still felt like he was flying even as he followed Jason up the short few steps to one of the townhouse’s back doors.

There, by the beam of a distant streetlamp, Jason took a key from his pocket and wagged it at Tim with a knowing look. “Remember my promise, kid? You do a good job and I show you some secrets? Consider this reward number one.”

He opened the lock with zero effort, trading the key for a small flashlight as he held open the door.

“Timmy Drake…Welcome home.”

He turned on the flashlight, illuminating Tim’s sneakers alongside the dusty hardwood floors of a fine kitchen. A few high-end appliances – the cutting edge of ten years before – sat silent and untouched between matching counters, while other fixtures stood open, their parts and plugs stripped away. A door-less threshold across the way continued on into a modest dining room, where a door in turn led to an open front hall.

Tim held his breath, following the light into the foyer, where the front door, a grand staircase, and a sealed pair of double doors waited. Dust coated every surface and stale, dry air of sealed rooms coated his lungs. He stood in the hallway while Jason caught up, making a slow circle to take in every detail, from the carved molding on the walls to the small, delicate chandelier hanging overhead.

“Is this really…?”

“The Drake house? Yeah.” Jason let the flashlight pass around the hall a few times to give Tim a better look, careful to keep its beam away from the windows. “The lawyers mothballed it after their car washed up. Most of the stuff got sold off, but Wayne bought the house halfway through and put a stop to that. Since then he’s arranged for bi-yearly cleanings and otherwise leaves it to sit.”

“Why?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe it’s Timmy’s inheritance. Just think: this could all be yours.” Jason chuckled dryly, heading for the stairs. “We can’t take anything out, ‘cause the cleaners also take inventory, but I think it’d be good to show you the family albums. Who knows? You might remember a key face and nail down our win for sure.”

He took the stairs two at a time, while Tim found himself trailing behind. His fingers trailed through the smooth banister wood, their tips tingling with…static? No, that would have faded in seconds. This lingered, like an ache or an itch, traveling up his nerves and sticking to the joints. It gnawed at the brain in the base of his skull, demanding his focus.

On the second-floor landing, he stopped. The perch overlooked the front hall and its doors, the dining room out of sight but the sealed double-doored living room in plain view. A faint, thin beam of orange light spilled through the crack, painting a line across the bare wood floor.

Without thinking, Tim crouched, then slid to his knees. He gripped the banister bars and peered through them at the light, searching for…

What? What was missing? 

…

Flowers. 

There had been floral patterns before, a rug down the center of the hall. And there were shadows too, people pacing in the living room, occasionally blocking out the light as they passed in front of the window. There’d been the faint smell of cinnamon and potpourri, and if he strained his ears…

_"It’s been three months, Janet. The nightmares have only gotten worse. He’s barely sleeping.”_

_“We need to face it, Jack. A psychiatrist alone isn’t enough. But Bruce’s adoption just went through, so maybe his boy and ours can help each other…”_

“Kid?”

Tim startled, the fleeting image slipping away before he could think to grasp it. Jason stood over him, frowning, his flashlight trained on Tim.

“Sorry,” said Tim, shaking his head. It ached at him. “Guess I got caught up in a daydream.”

He straightened up, his gaze falling over the banister and to the lower floor once more. It settled, momentarily, on the front door, and saw the heavy knob rattle from the outside.

Tim sucked a gasp through his teeth. “Jason.”

Jason spied what he meant, swore, and doused the flashlight. He hauled Tim back by the arm and tried two doors before one finally opened. They ducked inside just as the front latch undid itself and the door swung in.

Soft footsteps echoed through the empty house, alongside the shift of a lowered head and a quiet, wondering sigh.

“Wow,” said a man’s voice. “This brings back memories.”

Pressed flat against the upstairs door, Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

Another set of footsteps followed the first, shoving the door closed behind them. A younger, rougher voice gave a disappearing huff before speaking. “Tt. And why _are_ we here?”

“We were in the neighborhood.”

The first voice – vague and distracted as though lost in a dream – cut through the blood that rushed through Tim’s head. Above him, Jason muttered another curse and pressed them both closer to the door, his ear to the crack to hear better.

Tim couldn’t breathe, not because of Jason’s weight, but because…he knew that first voice. Or, he didn’t. But he _did_. There was something off about it, something not quite right, but he knew it in his heart. He _knew_. If only he could…

“Grayson.”

The second voice, the boy’s, cut through the stillness like a sword.

“Someone has been here. And they are here now.”

“Shit!” Jason swore, and beelined for the room’s only window. He tugged hard and it stuck, but then Tim caught up and helped with the final shove.

The town houses were tall, each floor about twice the height they’d be in the Bowery, so there was nearly twenty feet of open air between them and the thin strip of grass that made up the lawn.

Jason barely paused. He seized the sill with both hands and swung out, feet-first. He caught the drain pipe and slid all the way down, the metal shrieking in protest as it pulled away from the wall. He hit the lawn hard and rolled, only to pop right back up within seconds.

“Now you!” he staged-whispered to Tim.

“Are you crazy?!” The pipe had tilted away from the second floor. There was no way Tim could use it now.

Jason stepped forward, spreading his arms. “I’ll catch you,” he promised. “Now jump!”

For a horrible second, Tim thought about saying no. There were footsteps on the stairs now, coming straight for him. He could meet that voice, see the face it had attached, maybe even learn why it sounded so familiar…

And ruin his once chance to find his family, not to mention Jason’s dreams.

Tim looked out into those painfully sincere blue-green eyes. He took a deep breath, braced a foot against the windowsill, and jumped.

 

* * *

 

 

Dick Grayson stood in the door to Janet Drake’s old office and frowned at the open window. Between that and the tracks through the thick dust cover, he didn’t have to be trained by the World’s Greatest Detective to guess what had gone down. He crossed the rom and stuck his head outside just in time to catch a motorcycle’s final rev before it shot away into the night.

He should be angry, or maybe thanking his lucky stars – after all, what were the odds that someone broke in at the exact same time he and Damian passed by on their way from the airport? – but when he tried for either, only numbness came. It’d been five years since he’d last set foot in this house; eight since he and Batman determined it to be free of clues; and over ten since it’d been the quaint, strict yet warm home of his little godbrother.

He sighed, shutting the window as Damian appeared in the hall. The boy’s face was flushed with exertion and righteous indignation.

“They’ve fled northwards,” he reported, as always much too serious for a boy of ten. “If we take the roofs we can cut them off at Highland Way.”

“Did they steal anything?”

Damian made a face. “Initial checks say no. All that seems disturbed is the dust.”

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. It was getting long again. Maybe he’d trim it for the New Year.

“Let ‘em go, Little D. We’ll have B pull the security footage later. If we get face from that, we’ll follow up.”

Damian’s expression twisted further, projecting his displeasure. Six months ago, he would have fought Dick tooth and nail to avenge the intrusion on his father’s property. Now, he acquiesced to the elder’s words and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.

“Why would anyone want to break into this _tomb_ , anyway?”

“I wonder,” muttered Dick, and peered down at the dusty footsteps, pondering the story of the pair – yes, definitely a pair – who had left them.


	5. Chapter 5

A week out from Christmas and already the gates of _Stately_ Wayne Manor were decked in obnoxious evergreens. The damn things were real too – Jason could tell because they brushed the cab windows on their way in – which meant they were expensive, and would probably be replaced multiple times before the season’s end. 

Goddamn rich people.

Jason leaned back with a huff, stretching his legs to take some last advantage of the cab he’d sprung for while they crawled up the long drive. He eyed the still-ticking meter with disgust and tried to remember that a good first impression would more than make up for the cost.

Beside him, the kid – _Tim_ – had gone even paler than usual, his cheeks going sallow as the mansion rose into their sight. They’d done him up nice for the interview, but he wasn’t going to stay that way if he kept tugging at the sleeves of his tidy sweater. It was frayed enough as it was, and already Tim had a small pile of loose red thread piled on one knee.

“Stop that.” Jason leaned across the cab and tugged Tim’s arm away from the other. He set to rolling up the sleeves for him to hide the temptation and took note of how the kid’s nails had been picked down to the quick. “Sheesh, would you relax? You’re fine, kid, you’ve got this.”

“But what if I don’t?” Tim lifted his eyes and only his eyes to meet Jason’s gaze, the rest of him slumped into an anxious huddle. “What if I mess up, or forget something, or…what if they just don’t like me?”

Jason smothered a pained groan. Playing vulnerable was definitely among the kid’s strengths – he could’ve communicated ‘lost puppy’ vibes with those baby blues alone – but damn if the raw sincerity there didn’t tug on his heartstrings exactly as much as their rubes’.

He lay a hand on Tim’s shoulder and gripped like that could hold him steady.

“Listen, kid. We’re not even seeing Wayne or Grayson today, just the help. So there’s nobody to impress. Just stick to the script. And anyway…” He tucked a knuckle under Tim’s chin and tilted his head up until the smaller boy at last unfolded from his slouch. “These guys have been looking for ‘you’ for ten years. They _want_ to find you. They want to _love_ you. They just need the opportunity. Okay?”

The kid’s face softened into a small but honest smile. “Okay.”

The cab pulled to a stop before the Manor’s grand double front doors. Jason paid the driver to wait for them and gave the meter a final disgruntled scowl before leading Tim up the three stairs to the stoop. At the door, he pressed the small white button set into a bronze intercom and waited as a deep buzz echoed back.

Before too long, one of the doors opened, but only a crack. Through it peered a single, startlingly green eye set into a small, round face with dusk-tan skin and a buzz cut. The kid – who had to be Damian, Wayne’s bio-bastard – sneered at them through the gap like they smelled foul.

“Hey there.” Jason leaned down to be on the kid’s level. “We’ve got an appointment with Mister—”

“Go away.”

_Slam!_

Jason reeled back with a yelp, hand cupped around his aching nose, which had bounced off the door when it shut. Beside him, Tim gaped, equally dumbfounded. “Ah…”

“Son of a fucking bitch!”

Jason yanked Tim back a step to get him out of the way, then raised his fist and pounded the door. “Open up you little gremlin! We’ve got business in there!”

The intercom clicked on with a buzz, heralding that grating pre-pubescent squawk. “Your business is not welcome here and neither are you. Remove yourself from the property forthwith.”

Jason growled, leaning into the intercom and imagining it as the kid’s snotty little face. “You ain’t the one who calls that, brat. Where the fuck is Pennyworth?”

“Tt. It hardly matters. Curs such as yourself cannot be allowed to—”

Another _click_ cut him off in mid-sentence, the intercom cutting into the silence of electronic dead. Jason pulled back, scowling until the doors – both of them this time – opened again a moment later. An older man of refined and impeccable bearing stood between them, the straightness of his spine matched only by the hems of his pressed black suit.

“Gentlemen,” he said crisply, tone clipped by annoyance that was not directed at them. “I must apologize for young Master Damian’s behavior. I am Alfred Pennyworth. Please, come in.”

He swung one door wide enough for Tim and Jason to step into the vestibule. Behind Alfred and well away from the doors lurked a contrite Damian, who looked both thoroughly scolded and deeply unhappy about it.

Alfred gave the two visitors a once-over. Surprisingly, Jason didn’t feel judged by the scrutiny so much as assessed. Whatever the butler found in him seemed to be inoffensive, as he simply folded his hands behind him and inclined his head in the slightest of bows.

“Master Todd, I presume. We spoke on the phone.”

Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s me.”

“Then this must be…”

Alfred trailed off, gray eyes sliding to Tim. The boy gave a visible gulp and stood straight as a rod.

Jason grinned. “Can’tcha tell by looking at him?”

Rather than answer, Alfred closed the distance between them, fine shoes clicking on the marble floor. He circled Tim once, slowly, giving his assessing gaze a full 360 degree view. Tim twisted his head to follow, but if he had any thoughts on the matter he didn’t speak them.

Back at the start of the circle, Alfred gave Tim a final glance up and down before turning smartly on his heel. “We shall take tea in the eastern salon, gentlemen. If you would please follow me.”

As they did, Jason couldn’t help but notice the little bastard brat hanging back and glaring specifically at Tim. He positioned himself between them and flipped the kid off, earning himself an even deeper scowl before the little hell-spawn disappeared.

The “salon” was three rooms away, a bright room that smelled of festive potpourri with bay windows that looked out over the garden. A plain tea set waited on the coffee table between two couches.

“It’s an herbal blend,” said Alfred, picking up the pot as Jay and Tim sat down. “With a hint of wild berry, very of the season. Sugar?”

Jason shook his head. Tim took two, watching the lumps dissolve completely before he took his first sip.

Alfred set across from them, poured a cup on his own and set it aside to cool. “Let’s not beat around the bush, then.” His cool gaze, carefully masked, settled on Tim. “Young sir, what is your age?”

Tim swallowed an indelicate gulp of tea before he answered. “I’ll be seventeen next summer.”

“And the location of your birth?”

“Saint Margaret of Antioch’s downtown.”

 

It continued like that for the better part of two hours, with Pennyworth slowing his rapid pace only three times, to refresh Tim’s tea. Jason nursed his only cup the whole time, never letting it empty completely. Internally, he preened as Tim gradually relaxed and nailed every fact without hesitation while working just enough pauses to think that it didn’t seem entirely rehearsed. He was especially proud of the sights and smells worked into the recounting of his first meeting with Dick Grayson. That’d been a personal touch, to make it shine as the most important time of little Timmy’s life, and it worked like a charm.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Alfred pushed the now-empty teapot aside and steepled his long fingers.

“Well, you certainly seem to have your facts straight,” he said, face growing grave. “Which brings us then to our final questions. I apologize, as this may be upsetting…”

“It’s all right,” said Tim softly. The color had returned to his cheeks and deepened now, almost like a blush.

Alfred nodded in acknowledgement and allowed him a moment to collect himself. “If this is all true, and you are who you say you are, then kindly explain what happened to your family on that final night. How did you, a six-year-old boy, escape your parents’ fate?”

Jason’s inner thoughts punched the air in triumph. They had this on lock for sure. Tim made a show of thinking very hard and wet his lips before he began.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I think I must have been falling asleep. But when we hit the Queen’s Bridge…”

He stopped and frowned, his brow creasing.

“Wait…no. It was after the bridge.”

Despite himself, Jason did a double-take.

The accepted theory for the Drakes’ death – so accepted that his old GCPD contact would swear by it – was that a combination flat tire and break failure had led to Jack Drake losing control of his car, plunging it into the frozen river. No one knew if it had been sabotage or a freak accident; all that really mattered was that it went off the bridge.

Tim knew that. They’d practiced it. So what the hell was he doing?

“We’d just crossed it when…I think, the tire blew? There was a pop, and the car swerved, but Dad managed to pull off the road. The engine just…stopped. So Dad got out to pop the hood, but…

“There was another pop. And, blood. On the windshield, inside and out.

“Dad fell back in, across the center console, and Mom…Mom screamed. And then she stopped screaming. And there was more blood.

“Outside, in the dark, there were people. People all in black, coming toward the car. But, in the back seat, you could move the cushion to reach the trunk, so I…I crawled back there and…”

He trailed off. Alfred let the silence hang a moment before leaning in. “And?”

Tim closed his eyes with a soft whimper. That finally shook Jason out of his shock.

“That’s enough,” he snapped. “We’re done.”

“Indeed,” said Alfred, and settled back to observe them again. After a moment, he began collecting tea cups. “Thank you both for your time. If you hear from us again, I imagine it will be very soon. I’ll walk you to the door.”

Jason followed him to his feet, scowling when Tim stumbled as he stood. His eyes were out of focus and his pained expression hadn’t faded. When he drifted, Jason took him by the arm and steered him to the cab, tucking him into the backseat once more under Alfred’s watchful eye.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they were back in the Bowery apartment, Jason slammed the door behind them and whirled on Tim. “The _fuck_ was that?”

“I don’t know.” Tim still looked pained and confused, but his eyes were sharper now, and Jason could see the thought swirling behind them. “I swear, I don’t know, I…my head got all fuzzy and I couldn’t stop talking…”

He stopped, licking his lips and sliding his tongue around the inside of his mouth like he was looking for a lost tooth. His brow furrowed.

“The tea,” he said out-loud. “I think the tea was drugged.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish. But my head’s only now clearing up and that story…it’s like I was in a dream.”

Jason growled and raked a hand through his hair until it all stood on static ends. “What the fuck. What the actual _fuck_.”

Tim’s expression crumbled with something like disappointment or betrayal. “They drugged me,” he said again, like he didn’t want to admit it. “I’m sorry, Jason. I had no idea…”

“It’s not your fault,” Jason muttered, because as much as he wanted to rage he wasn’t going to blame the victim. Instead, he groaned in frustration and crossed the room to collapse onto the sofa. “Fuck. Can’t do shit about it now anyway. Guess all that’s left to do is wait.”

 

* * *

 

Back at Wayne Manor – or rather, beneath it – Alfred Pennyworth descended into darkness. Overhead, the bats from whom his employer took inspiration slept on, their winter hibernation reducing them to soft, breathy, echoing squeaks. Below, about half of the various lamps were lit, including those on the training mats – where Master Damian had left a swath of destruction – and the soft blue-white glow of the computers.

That is where he found Batman, already dressed for his nightly patrol. He typed steadily as the man approached, not even pausing when Alfred made his presence known by clearing his throat.

“You’ll be pleased to know that you ‘truth tea’ continues to work wonders, Master Bruce.”

The slightest hint of a smirk turned up a corner of Batman’s mouth. The tea was an herbal concoction of his own devising, blended from samples he’d collected during his tour of the world. With the right dose, it stimulated the unconscious to make the drinker more honest, without the potential side effects of a psychoactive.

Of course, nothing they got from it could ever be permissible in court. But it’d proven quite useful over the years for exposing even the most well-researched of charlatans.

He was a few more lines into his typing before a thought paused his fingers over the keys. He half-turned his head to peer at Alfred out of the corner of one eye.

“You wouldn’t come all the way down here just to tell me that.”

Alfred, for all his vaunted composure, seemed almost shaken. He took a brief moment to collect his thoughts. “It’s the young man, sir. He had an unusual reaction towards the end, almost like hypnosis. And in that state, his account of the Drake case matched your hypothesis exactly.”

Silence fell as the implications set in. Batman took his hands from the computer and turned his chair all the way around to give Alfred his full attention.

“Show me.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, when three sharp knocks struck the apartment door, Tim wasn’t sure what to expect. He was only awake to hear them because he’d had the dream again, that recurring nightmare of drowning in cold darkness that had haunted him his entire life. It had kept him up since pre-dawn, but even sleep-deprived he knew that such knocks in the Bowery normally heralded a visit from the cops. 

So when Jason – clad only in pajama pants and an old tank-top – answered the door to reveal Mister Alfred Pennyworth in his pressed suit and immaculately polished shoes, Tim could only stare. No doubt he gaped like a fish, but it took quite a while for his brain to catch up and notice.

“Uh,” said Jason, apparently caught in the same well of confusion.

“Mister Todd.” Pennyworth inclined his head in polite greeting, headless of Jason’s threadbare apparel. He unfolded his hands from behind his back to reveal pristine white driving gloves and an envelope that looked to be made of real parchment, sealed with red wax. “My formal congratulations. You and the young master are hereby invited to attend the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundation’s Annual Charity Gala. Master Bruce looks forward to meeting you both.”

“Oh my god.” Tim flew across the room, pushing into the space at Jason’s side. “Are you serious?”

Pennyworth raised a single eyebrow and, as Jason had yet to take the pre-offered envelope, presented it instead to Tim. “Indubitably.”

“Holy _shit_ kid!”

Jason’s arms were suddenly around Tim’s shoulders, lifting his feet from the floor in the single most enthusiastic hug Tim could remember. He went limp and let it happen, fingers pressing into the parchment to memorize its weight and fibers.

It was almost too much: too much to hope for, too much to believe. He’d been so sure that the plan was doomed, that he’d ruined everything. Yet here the proof was in his hands, smooth parchment heavy with the scent of ink and wax. It was all real.

From the door, Pennyworth cleared his throat. Tim sent a sheepish grin as he wiggled out of Jason’s hug. A part of him wanted to distrust the old man – after all, he’d plied them with drugged tea – but he couldn’t. From the moment they met, Tim had wanted to hug him, to breathe deep of his scent; tea and shoe polish and expensive cologne. It was oddly comforting, even just being near him, like the grandfather he’d always wanted.

“The Gala will commence on Saturday night, the day after tomorrow,” said Pennyworth primly once they’d both calmed down. “As such, I have also been instructed to have you both fitted for the…proper attire.”

His pale eyes flickered from their faces to their feet and back, suddenly remaining Tim that he was currently dressed only in boxers and an oversized t-shirt. His cheeks burned.

“We couldn’t possibly…”

Pennyworth raised a gloved hand to cut him off. “It will be of no trouble and no expense to you. Master Bruce has no intention of subjecting you to the ridicule of high society, and thus we must insist.”

Tim bit his lip, but nodded. Behind him, Jason snorted. “Whatever you say, Jeeves.”

“Very good.” Pennyworth gave an approving nod and placed a black bowler upon his bald head. “Then I shall await you in the car downstairs. Kindly join me at your earliest convenience.”

He bowed to them and smartly turned on his heel, as though he were striding through Buckingham Palace, not the grimy halls of a Bowery apartment. No sooner had Tim closed the door behind him than Jason snatched the invitation from his hand. He strode to the center of the room, held it to the ceiling lamp, and admired the waxy shine of the Wayne family crest on the seal.

“Holy fuck.” He grinned at Tim, wider than ever before, vibrating with excitement. “You did it, kid. You’re in!”

“I’m _in_ ,” Tim echoed, sinking into the folding chair. His hands shook and his knees weren’t much better. “I’m going to meet Bruce Wayne.”

Jason dropped the envelope to the kitchenette counter and clapped Tim’s shoulder so hard he nearly fell out of his suit. “You’re gonna get everything you ever dreamed, is what you’re gonna do. But first, get your pants on. We’ve got some fancy digs to try.”

 

* * *

 

 

With less than forty-eight hours until the biggest event of the season, Wayne Manor was in an uproar. Decorators, caterers and their excess help flooded the ground floor, their supervisors barking orders as they scrambled to match Alfred’s exact written standards.

In contrast, the second floor – especially the private family rooms of the east wing – were peaceful bordering on silent, but that didn’t stop Damian from scowling as Grayson measured out the necessary adjustments to his formal suit.

“What’s the matter, Lil’ D?” Richard – _Dick_ – grinned placatingly up at the boy as he wrapped the measuring tape around his waistband. “It’s not like you’re getting fat. You’ve just had a growth spurt. You’re growing up.”

“I am not concerned about my body,” Damian muttered. If anything, he wished he would grow faster. But that was not what had put him in such a foul mood.

Grayson prodded Damian’s cheek with the end of his pen, which only served to deepen the boy’s scowl. “Is it the party then? I know these big events are a pain but it’s for a good cause—”

“I do not care about this stupid event, either.”

Grayson fell silent, giving Damian a moment to calm from his snap and gather his thoughts. Jaw set, Damian glared his own reflection in the nearby mirror, his green eyes barely visible over the top of a metal box.

“Father sent Pennyworth to invite two of those plundering cons to the gala.”

Grayson’s grin faded, sinking from jest into melancholy. By _god_ that shouldn’t make Damian’s heart ache, but it did. He sparked that pain into righteous fury and glared at the top of Grayson’s head.

“Every year a new string of those charlatans comes waltzing into our home, pocketing silverware and looking to exploit father like some blathering fool!”

Worse, their lies hurt his family, Grayson most of all. Father hid it well and Pennyworth channeled his pain into weary disdain, but Richard never looked sadder than when those crooks ripped open the old wounds. It made Damian’s blood boil.

“Tell me, why do you and he insist on maintaining this…this _farce_? For the sake of a decades-dead child who wasn’t even real family?”

Grayson sighed, his gaze falling to the measurement of Damian’s inseam.

“Blood and laws don’t make a family. You know that.” He wrote down the numbers and wrapped the tape measure lightly around his hand. “We keep looking because the case is still open. Because we don’t know who killed the Drakes or why, and until we do there will be no closure. That’s why we keep raising the reward and inviting people in. One of them could have the information we need.”

He stood up, forcing Damian to crane his head to look him in the face. He ruffled Damian’s hair.

“God forbid, if anything ever happened to you, we’d do the same thing. That’s what you do when you love someone: you keep looking.”

Damian’s scowl melted into a frown. He couldn’t argue with those points right now, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “You cannot possibly believe the boy is still alive.”

“No,” said Grayson with another sad sigh. “But it sure is nice to dream.”

 

* * *

 

 

The biting cold of a Gotham winter set in the next night, with most weather stations predicting snow for the next three days. When it started up in the Bowery, Tim climbed the fire escape to the roof. He sat on the edge, feet dangling, and watched Gotham be consumed in soft orange light.

Jason followed him after half an hour, draping his brown leather jacket over the smaller boy’s shoulder. “You’ll catch your death if you’re not careful,” he warned, sitting beside him and lighting a cigarette. “What’cha doin’ up here, kid?”

Tim shrugged, pulling the jacket a bit closer. It smelled of cigarettes and motor oil, which oddly didn’t bother him anymore.

He looked out again at the city, where even the sounds of traffic had been dulled by falling snow.

“Gotham’s peaceful tonight,” he said finally. “Almost pretty.”

“She sure is.” Jason took a drag and released a cloud of gray-white smoke over the street. “Fresh snow has a way of cleaning the old girl up.”

Tim worried his bottom lip, hoping that it wouldn’t get too chapped between his bad habit and the cold. “Would you really leave? After you get the reward, I mean. You’d just…walk away from all this?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t know if I could. It’s a mess, but…it’s still home.”

Jason sighed, blowing his smoke into the wind and away from Tim’s face. “I hear ya. But if you only ever know one place, who’s to say you really know what home is?”

They lapsed into silence, letting the chill sink into their bones. Tim’s gaze fell away from the skyline and down to the Bowery streets, slowly filling with snow that browned the second it touched earth.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hasn’t stopped you yet.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but took that as permission. “Why ‘Tim Drake’?”

Jason raised an eyebrow at him, the cherry of his cig blazing orange.

“You’re a smart guy. You could’ve come up with any number of schemes that didn’t involve lying to the richest man in town or betting on some random orphan to play the part. So, why this?”

Jason gave a thoughtful hum, drawing in a few more drags before flicking his stub into the street. He reached around Tim to get into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out the steno pad with his research in it. He thumbed through the newspaper clippings, selected one with an old photo under the headline, and passed it to Tim.

“My mom hung that one the fridge when I was a kid,” he said, by way of explanation. “The case really got to her. When it came on the news, she’d start crying and hug me while babbling on about how alike we looked and how it’d kill her to lose me like Wayne lost him.”

Tim had trouble believing that he and Jason – or rather, Jason and Timmy Drake – had ever looked alike, even as kids. Jason was bigger, rougher and more roguishly handsome than Tim could ever hope to be. Still, maybe under the influence or in the right light, their dark hair and blue eyes were enough to let them pass as brothers.

“So I guess that’s one reason. Even if she never lived to see it, I just wanted to give my mom a happy ending.”

Tim pulled his knees up to his chest, letting the weight of that confession settled before he pushed further. “Is there another reason?”

Jason stared out at the city as though weighing his options. He sighed.

“I met him once. Tim Drake, I mean.” He scratched the side of his face and shrugged. “Eh, what the hell. Maybe you can use this if Wayne asks any pushy questions.”

He shifted a bit closer to Tim and started flicking his lighter on and off, letting the flame linger a minute or two to warm their hands before it went out.

“It happened at Haley’s. You remember, the circus? Where the Graysons flew. I was there, poking around behind the food stands, when this little Kewpie doll of a kid nearly runs me down. Don’t ask me what he was doing there—”

“Looking for Dick Grayson,” muttered Tim, though for the life of him he didn’t know why.

Jason chuckled. “Good guess. Anyway, this kid’s about the blow my cover, so I try to shoo him off. Then I hear his mom calling from back in the crowd – all, ‘Tim Drake, where are you, come back this instant’ like they do. So I just, turned the kid around and shove him back out front where he’d be found. Didn’t give it a second thought until the name popped up on the news. Small world, huh?”

He flicked out the lighter and rubbed his hands together, groaning over stiff fingers. Tim frowned, blinking past the after-image where the flame had been. Something felt off about Jason’s story. Like he’d forgotten the important bit.

“No one else saw you?”

“’Course not. I skedaddled. Couldn’t risk getting caught with stolen food.”

“But it wasn’t stolen.”

Jason stared at him. Tim stared back.

“You didn’t steal that pretzel. I had it, and I gave to you because you looked…hungry…”

Jason’s lighter slid from his grip and clattered to the roof between them. He gaped at Tim, gray eyes stretched wide.

“How did you know that?”

“I…”

“I didn’t say a damn thing about pretzels. So how did you know?”

Tim’s mind stumbled back over his recent thoughts, conjuring the image – clear as day – of a scruffy, dirty boy surrounded by shade, bright colors and the scent of animal dung. He remembered the crunch of packed earth beneath his feet and the warmth of his untouched pretzel as he shoved it into the boy’s hands and looked up into familiar gray eyes.

He remembered…

_He remembered._

“I…I know because I was there. Because that was _me_ and I–” He grabbed Jason’s arm, half-ecstatic and half-terrified that if the older boy pulled away he’d take the memory with him. “I remember. Jason, I remember! I remember the circus, and Dick, and I remember _you_!”

“Holy fuck,” Jason breathed, raking the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “Holy _fuck_. You’re _real_.”

Tim felt so overcome with delight, confusion and fear that he hardly knew what to do with his own body. He wanted to hug Jason, or maybe run laps around the roof, or jump up and shout until all of Gotham knew that _he was real_.

But all that was snuffed out when a flicker of movement across the alley caught his eye. It was the slightest thing, quick as a breath, and when he looked to the other roof again there was no one there.

Only, there had been someone there. Someone watching. And that knowledge dripped ice down his spine.

“Tim?”

Tim shivered. That was the first time Jason had ever used his name. Not ‘kid,’ not ‘hey you,’ his _real_ name.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, though from the way Jason’s eyes tracked to the other roof, they both knew he was lying. He tugged on Jason’s sleeve. “I’m getting cold. Let’s go inside.”

Jason nodded and herded him back to the fire escape. Inside, they locked the windows and doors; yet, despite the peace of that snowy night, neither of them could quite find the comfort to sleep.


End file.
